


Grandfather's Village

by Small_Hobbit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade has inherited a house in a village in south-west France.  He has also been sent some photos of people with the cryptic note "The days have come when the truth must be known"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grandfather's Village

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sherlockmas 2013 Summer Prompt Fest.
> 
> My thanks to Notluvulongtime for all her hard work in beta-ing. Also to Eloquy for providing and checking the French translations as well as ensuring that this has been French-picked.
> 
> The village is imaginery. If it existed it would be approximately half-way between Bayonne and Pau.
> 
> My thanks also go to Eloquy for providing a list of the French Basque names.

“This is it, my grandfather’s village,” Greg said as he stopped the car by the signpost.  “I’m still not sure it’s a good idea.”

“What’s the alternative?” John asked.

“Keep on driving, phone the solicitor and ask him to arrange the sale for me.”

“And then you’ll never know what happened.”

“Maybe that would be for the best.”

“Someone wanted you to know, or they wouldn’t have sent you the photographs.”

“Yeah, which is why we’re here.”

Greg drove on and stopped by a whitewashed house.  He knocked and as the door was opened said, “Bonjour, je m’appelle Greg Lestrade.”

The woman who had answered the door turned and spoke to someone inside.  Shortly afterwards, a man appeared and indicated to Greg to follow him.  John watched from the car as they walked past a few more small houses and stopped by a slightly larger building.  Here the man took a key from his pocket, gave it to Greg, indicated something with a wave of his arms and departed back to his own house.  Greg walked back to the car and got in. 

“We can park in the side street, apparently.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go straight in.  I would have waited you know.”

“I know.  But I didn’t want to be watched.  And to be honest, I’m not sure what I’ll find; and I’d rather have you with me when I find it.”

Greg parked the car and the two men took their bags out of the boot.  They walked back round the corner and Greg unlocked the door.  They went inside and John was aware that Greg was considering the room where they were standing in the same way as he would a crime scene.

He touched his arm.  “Is it what you expected?”

“Yes, and no.  The furniture is still here, as we were told, but there’s nothing of a personal nature.  Nothing to indicate the sort of people who used to live here.”

“Maybe someone came and took stuff away.”

“But in which case why not take some of the valuable furniture, too?  There’s no inventory, so I wouldn’t be any the wiser.”

John agreed and then apologised as his stomach rumbled.

“We ought to get something to eat,” Greg said.  “The thing is, I don’t really fancy driving anywhere else today and I’m not sure whether I want to brave the local bistrot tonight.”

“I noticed a shop that was open.  I can pop out and get some food and we can eat here.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“It’s okay; my French may not be as good as yours, but I think I can probably manage a bit of shopping.”

“It’s not that.  You’ll think me stupid, but I really don’t fancy being alone in the house at the moment.  It’s as if all the ghosts have arranged to meet me and I don’t know who they once were.”

Later, once they had eaten and were enjoying the rest of a bottle of the local wine, John endeavoured to learn as much as he could about why Greg had inherited a house in a French village so unexpectedly.  A few weeks earlier, Greg had received a letter from a solicitor explaining that his uncle had died.  Greg had been in two minds about what he should do and had more or less decided to sell the property unseen when he received in the post a few photos of people he did not immediately recognise; including two taken of groups appearing to include what could have been a young Greg.  Knowing that Anderson had an interest in old photographs, Greg had shown them to him and he was able to confirm Greg’s suspicions that they dated from the early to middle 1930s.  Accompanying the photos was a hand-written note that said “Le temps est venu que la vérité éclate au grand jour” which, when translated, meant: “The days have come when the truth must be known”. 

The arrival of the photos and their note were sufficient to convince Greg that he should make one last visit to the area, before commencing the sale.  When he had contacted the solicitor, he had been told that there would be no problem with him staying in the house.  Accordingly, he and John had arranged to not only take some leave and enjoy a holiday together, but possibly make some enquiries as to who the people in the pictures were as well.

“So this was your grandparent’s house?” John began.

“Yes, it’s years since I was here last, but it doesn’t seem to have changed all that much.”

 “I presume it was left to your uncle when your grandparents died.”

“My grandfather owned the house and on his death, my uncle inherited it, along with the responsibility of caring for my grandmother.”

“Right.  I’m surprised your uncle and your father weren’t left it between the two of them.  I assume your uncle was the oldest?”

“Actually, no.  My father was the oldest, but he had refused to receive anything from his father.”

“Do you know why?”

“He never said.  All I know is that he left home when he was quite young and the dispute, or whatever it was, dates from that time.”

“I thought you said that you used to visit this place as children.”

“We did.  We would come for a few days every year.  My father said that there was no reason for my grandmother to miss out on seeing her grandchildren.  I believe my parents had even invited her over to visit us, but she never came.”

“So there was no surprise when the property was left to your uncle.”

“None whatsoever.  But it does seem extremely odd that it has now been left to me.”

“Have you said anything to your sister?”

“Yes.  Her response was ‘good luck to you’.  She’s certainly not jealous.  I had been thinking that if I sold it, I might put some of the proceeds into savings for Callum and Laura.”

“I’m sure she’d appreciate that.  But didn’t your uncle have any children?”

“Yes.  Although neither are contesting the will, apparently.  The solicitor did say that they might like some of the furniture, which I’ve got no problem with.  In fact, I’m meeting one of them in a few days time to discuss the items he would like.  We’re meeting in Pau.  I had said we could meet here, so he could take a look round, but he was quite adamant that Pau would be better for him.  He said his sister was sending him a list as well.  She lives in Rouen now.”

“A list sounds like there’s quite a lot she wants.”

“It’s not quite like that.  More that there were a few pieces that she would like and she didn’t trust her brother to get it right if she wasn’t completely specific.  Sounds very similar to Elaine in some ways.”

John chuckled, having heard Elaine express herself on the inability of men to do anything properly.

Greg yawned.  “That’s about all I know.  And now I’m going to bed, or I will do, once it’s made.”

“I did it earlier, when you were sorting the food out.”

Greg leaned over and kissed John.  “Thank you.  Once again you’ve anticipated my needs.  I’m so glad you were able to come with me.”

“Me, too.  And now bed, before you fall asleep down here.  Because those stairs are very narrow and I doubt I could carry you up them without banging your head.”

***

The following morning and after they’d had breakfast, John asked Greg what his plans were for the day.

“I thought we could go for a walk and I could show you some of the places that I remember.  Assuming that I can find them again.  And then this afternoon, we could go for a bit of a drive and see what’s around.”

“Have you any idea of how you’re going to find out more about the photos?”

“My initial plan was to go to the bistrot in the evening and see if someone there remembers anyone.  I suppose we could go at lunchtime instead.”

“No, I like the idea of exploring the area first.  They’ll be plenty of time to make enquiries later.”

The day went better than either of them had imagined.  Greg managed to show John the parts of the village that he remembered, although inevitably there had been changes over time.  It took two grown men considerably less time to cover the area than it had when Greg’s grandmother had been walking with him and his sister.  Especially since, as Greg recalled, his grandmother knew everyone and so they had to stop at regular intervals for her to exchange all the latest news.  This meant that they were back at the house sooner than expected, so they decided to take the car and find somewhere for lunch.  A leisurely meal, followed by the opportunity to explore the local countryside left John wishing they could forget the photos entirely and just enjoy their holiday.  But he knew Greg was keen to find out more about his family background, especially since his father had refused to talk about it.

They made their way over to the bistrot and once they’d bought a drink, Lestrade took the photos out and asked the proprietor whether he had any idea as to who they were, or if he could suggest someone they could ask.  The proprietor suggested that they leave the pictures out on their table. He would then mention the photos to some of the men expected to come in later on, encouraging them to help if they could.  Gradually, the bistrot started to fill up and a few people glanced at the pictures, with one or two coming over to take a better look.  However, no-one volunteered any information and John sensed that Greg was starting to look keenly at those around them, aware that a few had recognised some of the people in the pictures, and had kept quiet regardless.

After about forty minutes, a man in a shirt and tie came in, bought himself a drink, and came to join John and Greg.

“I understand that you are asking about some photos,” the man said in English.

“Yes,” Greg pushed them towards him.  “Can you help identify anyone?”

“I’m not from around here.  People are saying that you might be a policeman.”

Greg gave a rueful laugh and produced his warrant card from his wallet.

“I am.  But this isn’t a police matter.  I’ve just inherited my uncle’s house in the village and was sent these photos, so I’m trying to find out who the people are.”

“That explains a lot.  You behave like a policeman even when dealing with a personal matter.”  The man chuckled.  “I’m a Capitaine de Gendarmerie.  I’ll see if anyone can help you.”

He finished his drink and returned the glass to the bar, saying something to the proprietor as he did so.  John was unable to follow the rapid French, so looked across at Greg for a translation.

“I think he said I was the real McCoy.  And that yes, I am a policeman, but that this isn’t a police matter.”

John noticed one or two of the men in the bistrot nodding.  Some of them came over to take another look at the photos and spoke softly to one another; still, no-one seemed prepared to offer up any information.  At least Greg looked relieved; the atmosphere that had felt slightly hostile before was at once more relaxed.

Greg said, “I think we’ve done all we can tonight.  I’m actually feeling quite tired; must be all the fresh air.  Shall we head back to the house?”

“Nothing to do with the amount of wine you’ve consumed, then?  But I agree; it’s time to go back.”

***

The following morning, when Greg was about to leave the house to go to buy some croissants, he found that a note had been put through the door.

_Venez derrière l’église à sept heures ce soir._

“Short and to the point,” John remarked when Greg showed him.  “I assume you will go.”

“It’s the only response we’ve had, so I’d be a fool not to.”

“What do you want to do today?  Did you want to make further enquiries?”

“To be honest, I wouldn’t know where to start, so I’d rather wait until we’ve met the note writer.  I had thought of going to the sea.  It shouldn’t take more than about an hour, if you’d like to go.”

“I think that’s a great suggestion.  And it’s probably not a bad idea to do something totally different today.”

***

That evening, having spent a good day at the coast, John and Greg left the house for their meeting behind the church.  As they walked round the side, they saw a long stone bench, so they sat down to await whoever had asked to meet them.

About five minutes later, a man about their age, together with an older man - clearly his father  -approached.  Greg and John stood up and they all four shook hands.

“Good evening, my name is Mathias Elissalde and this is my father.”  Mathias noticed Greg’s surprise and added “I imagine you didn’t expect anyone to be speaking English.  I teach it at the lycée.”

“Right.  Thank you for coming to meet me.”

“I saw the photos last night and thought I recognised my grandfather in two of them.  So I told my father about the pictures and he thought we should meet up.  Do you have them with you?”

Greg took the photos out of their envelope and passed them to Mathias, who showed them to his father.  The old man nodded and pointed at the three characters in one of the pictures.  Greg tried to follow the conversation, but the old man’s accent was strong and he found it difficult.  There appeared to be some dispute as he pointed to two of the men, saying “Enzo Lestrade” and “grand-père”.  Finally, Mathias turned to Greg and John and started to explain.

“This man is my grandfather, this one is Bastien Amestoy and this is Enzo Lestrade.  My father is convinced that although you bear the name Lestrade, Bastien Amestoy was in fact your grandfather.”

Greg looked at the photos.  The man that Mathias had called Bastien Amestoy was the one who closely resembled a youthful version of himself.

“I’m sorry; I don’t understand.”

The older M. Elissalde said something and Mathias translated, “In the early 1940s, the local Resistance helped fallen airmen escape across the border to Spain.  Bastien Amestoy was very involved in the work.  Everything had gone well until the final occasion, when someone had presumably informed on him.  He was captured and that was the last time anyone saw him alive.”

Some more rapid words were exchanged between the two Frenchmen before Mathias continued.  “Your grandmother was known to have been friendly with Amestoy and some suspected that she, too, was involved with the Resistance.  Anyway, shortly after his capture, she and Enzo Lestrade were married.  And then some six or so months later, your father was born.  Whilst this sort of behaviour was not approved of, it was also not unheard of; everyone assumed that she and Lestrade had already been in a relationship, and that her subsequent pregnancy had forced the marriage.”

“I can understand that, but why is your father so adamant that Bastien Amestoy was my grandfather and not Lestrade?”

Mathias relayed the question to his father and listened intently to the answer.  “Apparently there were always some suspicions, but no-one was in a position to say anything.  Especially at that time - when saying the wrong thing to the wrong person could result in a lot of trouble, for not only the speaker, but also their family.  In appearance, your father took after his mother’s side of the family, so gradually any mutterings faded away.

“But then one day, your father brought his own family – you and your sister - to visit.  At some point, Amestoy’s older sister saw you and practically fainted.  The resemblance to her brother, when he had been little, was uncanny.  And this time there was nothing to stop the muttering.”

“I wasn’t aware of any of this.”

“You were a child.  And my father says that you only came for a few days every year, so it would have been unlikely for you to have heard anything.”

“I wonder how much my father knew.  If he had found out the truth, then that would certainly account for why he left the village.”

“Your father is no longer with us?”

“No, he died a few years ago.  And he never said anything, or left any details.”  Greg looked thoughtful.  “I suppose that there were suspicions that either my grandfather - no; Lestrade - or my grandmother were involved in informing on Amestoy.”

Again Mathias spoke to his father.  They were all surprised by his reaction.

“My father says that everyone believed Enzo Lestrade was involved from the beginning, but that it would not have been safe to have accused him of anything.”

He paused as his father added something.

“Tante Maéva might be able to tell you something about your grandmother.  They were at school together.  If you like, I could arrange for you to visit her.  She’s over 90 and living in a home.  She is physically frail, but her memories are all still there.”

“If you are able to do that I would appreciate it very much.”

“It might be a good idea if I came with you.  She speaks no English and whilst I understand you speak French, you might find the accent hard to understand.”

“That would be very helpful.  Would your father like to come too?”

Mathias passed the invitation on.  The response was short and to the point.

“He says ‘no thank you.’  Tante Maéva would no doubt complain about his clothing and accuse him of smoking and drinking too much.  She has done so for the last 70 years and he has no need to hear the same again.”

“I understand.”

“I will phone the home tomorrow morning, but I anticipate no problem with meeting Tante Maéva.  I can pick you up about half past two tomorrow afternoon and take you there, if you would like.”

“Thank you.  That’s very kind of you.”

“Right.  Until tomorrow then.”  Mathias stood up, followed by his father.  They all four shook hands.  Greg and John watched as the two departed for home.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

“I think so.  It’s just.  I never expected this and I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything.  We can either go to the bistrot, or there’s a bottle of wine back at the house if you’d prefer.”

“I think I’d like to go straight back.  I need some time to process what we’ve learnt.”

***

Greg was restless the following morning and snapped at John when he suggested they go out for a couple of hours before meeting Mathias. 

“A walk around the village wouldn’t hurt,” John remarked.

“No, of course.  I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m so desperate to find out more and really worried about what I’m going to learn.”

“It’s okay.  I can understand that.  Would you prefer to see Tante Maéva by yourself?  I can always find something to do for a couple of hours.”

“No.  I would prefer that you to come with me.  You’ve been so helpful up to now; I’d miss you if you weren’t there.”

***

That afternoon, Mathias drove them both to the home where his aunt lived, where they found her sitting outside in the garden.  She was aware they were coming and greeted them accordingly.  Although frail, her expression told them that very little got past her. While under her scrutiny, John was reminded of Sherlock’s rapid deductions about people.

Mathias explained what they had learnt from his father the previous day and that Greg was keen to learn more about his family history.  Tante Maéva nodded and spoke rapidly to him.

“My aunt and Maylis, your grandmother, were good friends.  As children they had been neighbours, going to school together and then going to dances together as they grew up.  They remained friends even when my aunt got married, although inevitably they saw less of each other.  As the war continued, they grew slightly apart, Maylis becoming a little more distant.  My aunt wasn’t greatly surprised; she knew that Maylis was involved in the Resistance, and the less that was said, the better for all concerned.”

Mathias took a breath and Tante Maéva continued her narrative.

“She was surprised when Maylis married Lestrade so soon after Bastien Amestoy’s capture, because she had believed that Maylis and Amestoy were seeing each other.  However, it soon became apparent why she had needed to get married. And at the time, my aunt assumed that she had been mistaken in her belief.  It wasn’t until after the Liberation that she learnt the truth.  Lestrade had come to Maylis and told her about Amestoy’s capture.  He had also said that she was in danger herself, but that if she agreed to marry him, he would protect her.  Maylis was aware of the risks she had been running, but she now knew that she was pregnant with Amestoy’s child.  She made the decision to protect the child and accordingly married Lestrade.  That child was Thomas, your father.”

“But didn’t the truth come out after the war?”  Greg’s voice wavered as he spoke.

Mathias translated for his aunt and listened to her answer.

“Maylis asked her not to tell anyone.  After your father was born, she had two small children with Lestrade, one of whom was your uncle, and she did not want to do anything that might risk their safety.  She was adamant that she had made her decision and would live with it.  And so nothing was said until many years later, when your father brought you and your sister to visit. At that point, what some had suspected became clear to all.”

Greg was silent for a minute and then he stood up and walked to the far side of the garden. 

John watched him go and then said to Mathias, “Please thank your aunt for taking the time to tell us.”

He did so and nodded as she replied.

“My aunt says that it was a pleasure, and please not to worry about your friend’s reaction.  She understands that it has come as a shock to him.”

They all left shortly afterwards, Greg joining them as they headed back to the car.

***

That evening Greg sat silently in the chair, perfectly still apart from the occasional shudder that ran through his body.  John could see the tension written on his face.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

“What? That I’m not a ‘Lestrade’?  How can you ask that question?  I don’t know who I am anymore.  What should I be called?”

“Regardless of who your grandfather actually was, you are still _Greg Lestrade_.  Your father, I forget his first name ...”

“Thomas.”

“… would have been registered as ‘Thomas Lestrade.’  Enzo would never have called him anything else.”

“I suppose so.”  Greg paused.  “But what made _her_ do it?  What made my grandmother marry Enzo Lestrade and live the rest of her life as a lie?”

He stood up, swayed for a moment and then crumpled to the floor.  John rushed to his side, crouching down beside him, putting his arms round and pulling him close.

“I don’t think she had any choice if she was going to protect her unborn child.”

“But surely, later ...”  Greg’s head was buried in John’s shoulder, muffling the words.

“I suppose there was nowhere for her to go.”

“It doesn’t sound as if she even wanted to try.”

“Don’t be hard on her.  It was over sixty years ago; things were very different then.  Perhaps if she hadn’t done what she’d done, you wouldn’t be here.”

“But _still_.”

“I know.  Maybe you’ll find out more tomorrow when you meet your cousin, Théo.”

There was a long pause.

“Yes, I suppose that’s possible.”

Greg started to stretch and John moved to give him space.

“You probably think I’m being unreasonable,” Greg added.

“Not at all.  This has been a complete shock, it’s not surprising that you’re upset.”

“Thank you for being so understanding.  I’m knackered now though.  How about we go to bed and get up early tomorrow so we can look round Pau before I meet Théo for lunch?”

***

John woke with a start.  He had been dreaming about a lighthouse similar to the one they had seen on their trip to the coast earlier in the week.  Back then, the sea had been calm, but in his dream, the waves had been pounding against the structure.  It was as if the revelations of the last few days had taken watery form and were seeking to destroy the vulnerable building.  Instinctively he reached towards Greg, and was relieved when his partner took his hand.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” John muttered.

“You weren’t the only one having a bad dream.  And my mind is still racing.”

John rolled over and put his arms round Greg, pulling him close.   The two of them lay together; a partnership that would stand against the waves that were trying to drown them.

***

They had agreed Greg would meet his cousin by himself.  Théo Lestrade had made it clear in his correspondence that he did not wish to talk about family matters in front of strangers.  Accordingly, John had left Greg outside the restaurant rendezvous and had found a café where he could sit and people watch whilst eating his own lunch.  Greg would phone him once the meeting was over.

It was only just over an hour later when Greg phoned and John walked back up the street to join him.

“How did it go?”

“Very businesslike.  He presented me with a list of items that he and his sister would like.  I agreed to them having them.  He will arrange for someone to come and collect them next Monday and will let me know when to expect the courier.”

“Did he comment on your uncle leaving you the house?”

“He said that up to about ten years ago they were in a business partnership together.  He wanted to take the venture in one direction and his father didn’t.  They had a massive argument, which broke up the partnership.  My cousin set up his own business, taking a number of their major customers with him.  My uncle was furious and told him that he never wanted him to cross his threshold again, changing his will at the same time.  Theo doesn’t seem particularly bothered.  The furniture he and his sister have asked for all belonged to their mother, who died a few years ago.”

“Did he say anything about your grandfather or make any reference to what we’ve found out?”

“No.  I don’t even know how much he knows.  It’s strange; I think I was expecting more revelations. So to find out that I was left the house because of what could’ve been a petty business-related argument feels like a let down.”

“So what would you like to do now?”

“Go back to the house.  There are times when I’m working on a case where I feel there’s a vital clue just out of reach, but if I look at things a bit longer, I find it.  I’m feeling like that now and I need to go back and take another look.”

***

Once back at the house, Greg took the photos out of the now rather dog-eared envelope.  He put them on the table, the envelope beside them, and regarded them critically.

“Who sent these to me?  And why?” he asked. 

“Where were they posted?  Maybe that will help.”

“Bayonne.  Which doesn’t really tell us much.  Just because it’s not a local postmark, doesn’t mean that the sender isn’t a local.”

“It might well eliminate Théo, as presumably he would have sent them from Pau.”

“I think we can eliminate him anyway – he didn’t seem to have any interest in the past.”

“Is it fair to assume that the sender is either in one of the photos or is related to someone who is?”

“I think that has to be our starting point.  We know that this one has Enzo Lestrade, Bastien Amestoy and Mathias Elissalde’s grandfather.” Greg pointed at each as he said their name.  “I didn’t get any sense that they had seen the pictures before, so we can assume it wasn’t either Mathias or his father.”

“Agreed.  You didn’t show the photos to Tante Maéva.”

“No, but looking at the picture of the two young women, this has to have been my grandmother because there’s quite a similarity to my sister when she was younger.”

“And I would guess that the other is Tante Maéva.  Her expression hasn’t changed much over the years.  And she would have said something if she had sent them.”

“Besides which, she would have had to ask someone to post them for her, so it’s extremely unlikely they’d have gone all the way to Bayonne to do so.”

“True.”

“Which leaves this photo.”

Greg pointed to the third picture, which showed half a dozen young men smiling at the camera.  One of the young men was holding a football.

“Looks like a picture of the village football team.”

“Yeah.  We know three of the players.  My guess is that the sender is related to one of the other three.”

“How do you propose finding out who they were?”

“Someone must recognise them.  Mathias’ father may know them.  I didn’t ask him because we were concentrating on Enzo Lestrade and Bastien Amestoy. And to be honest, after what he told us I wasn’t interested in the others.”

“So what do you plan to do?”

“Go back to the bistrot and ask specifically if anyone can identify them.  I imagine by now, everyone will know that we’re aware of the original situation, so hopefully people will be a bit more forthcoming.”

***

Accordingly, they made their way over to the bistrot later that evening.  Once inside, they spotted Mathias, so they went over and Greg explained that they’d like to identify the remaining men in the picture.  Mathias’ father was also in the bistrot, sitting with a group of his friends.  Mathias took the photo over and asked if anyone could help.  Instantly, four of them started talking at once, attracting the attention of some of the other older men, who went over to join them. 

“I suggest we leave them to it for a while,” Mathias said.  “They’ve just started to argue about whether one of your group lived next to the bakers or the butchers.  Why don’t you come and join me outside?”

Greg nodded and they walked back past the men, just as one of them took a mobile phone out of his pocket, glared at it for a few seconds and then made a call. 

“They never understand that you don’t need to shout on the phone,” Mathias commented.  “Mind you, since most of them are going deaf, it’s probably not all that surprising.”

A few minutes later, some more elderly men arrived, presumably summoned to help with the identification.  And when John went to buy more drinks about half an hour later, they were all arguing amicably amongst themselves.  He suspected that the discussion had broadened somewhat from the initial identification, but they seemed quite happy and since he was enjoying his evening with Greg and some of Mathias’ friends, he wasn’t going to complain.

Another forty-five minutes later and Mathias brought back not only the next round, but also the photograph.  He passed the drinks around and then started to explain.

“This is either Xalbador or Santxo Laplace.  There were three brothers, who all looked alike.  The majority vote is that it’s not Frantxoa, the third brother, but opinion seems to be equally split between Xalbador and Santxo.  The family have always been stalwarts of the village and at least two-thirds of the current population will be related to them in some way.”

Greg nodded.  It seemed unlikely that a relative of either Xalbador or Santxo would have needed to send the pictures, since anything they wanted known would be common knowledge already.

Mathias then pointed to one of the others in the picture.  “This is Bixente Iriart, or someone very similar.  He had three daughters who all married outside the village.”

Again Greg nodded, ruling out this man as well.  Even if Iriart had been involved with his grandfather, the fact that he’d recently inherited the house probably wouldn’t have reached his descendants.

“Lastly, this is Lucas Gastambide.  He was Bastien Amestoy’s brother-in-law, having married the man’s younger sister.  Gastambide’s daughter moved to Bayonne a few years ago to be closer to her own daughter.”

Greg looked up on hearing the word _Bayonne._

“Do you know if she is still in contact with people here?”

“Oh yes; she’s still got friends in the village and comes to visit them. And they go to see her.”

“Thank you.  And please thank your father and his friends for all their help.”

John sensed that Greg was keen to get back to the house and therefore downed his beer quickly.  They made their farewells and walked back.

Once away from the bistrot, Greg verbalized what was in both their minds: “I think Lucas Gastambide’s daughter was the person who sent the photos.  I want to find a way to visit her.”

***

Next morning, following his usual custom, Greg had gone across to the local shop to buy fresh bread for breakfast.  John was still pottering around making coffee when Greg burst back into the house.

“I’ve got it.  An address for Lucas Gastambide’s daughter.  We can go and see her.”

He started to hunt for his car keys.

“Hang on a second.  Just for once, I’d like a few more details before I go hurtling out to find someone.  And besides which, I doubt an elderly lady is going to want you thundering on her door at this time in the morning.”

Greg took a deep breath.  “Yeah, okay.  It’s just ...”

“I know.  The final piece of the puzzle.  Shall I finish making the coffee?”

“Sorry; yes, please do.”

There was a knock at the door.  John went to answer it.  A young girl was standing there holding a baguette.

“Monsieur avait laissé son pain au magasin.”

“Merci beaucoup, demoiselle.”

John took the bread and went back to the kitchen.

“Let’s have breakfast and you can tell me what happened whilst we eat.”

“I’ve been seeing the same women every day when I’ve gone for the bread. So they’ve started asking if I’m enjoying my holiday.  Today, one of them said that her husband had enjoyed the discussion over the pictures that they’d had last night.  And then another joined in, saying that she’d heard we were interested in Gastambide and had we wanted to get in touch with his daughter.  I jumped at the idea and she produced a piece of paper from her handbag, which had her address on it.  She said she was sure that she would be happy to meet us.”

“That’s excellent.  And now that you’ve eaten your breakfast, we can go and find her.”

***

They found the street they were looking for and John got out of the car.  Greg didn’t move, so he opened the door again and leaned across.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just – how much more of what I believed to be true about my family am I going to have torn up?  I feel betrayed in a way.  My father must have known all this, and yet he never said anything.  I’m not even sure how much he told my mother.  I’m not sure that I do want to know any more.”

“Whatever it is, we’ll cope with it.  And you’ll never be happy if you don’t find out what else there is.  There was a reason you were sent the photographs and if you’re right - that Eva Bidart sent them - then you owe it to both yourself and to her to learn what it was.”

Greg nodded and slowly got out of the car.  He squared his shoulders and walked up to the front door.  He knocked and it was quickly opened.

“Bonjour, je m’appelle Greg Lestrade.”

“Ah, oui, le fils to Thomas.  Entrez tous les deux.”

They went in and Mme Bidart indicated a settee for them to sit on.  She returned with coffee and then began to talk, pausing at times for Greg to translate the parts that John was unable to follow.

“As I am sure you know, I am the daughter of Lucas and Alexia Gastambide.  Alexia was the sister of Bastien Amestoy.  Your father Thomas and I were childhood sweethearts and as a teenage girl, I believed we would grow up and marry each other. 

“One evening, when I was 16, Thomas came to see me.  He was in a state and had a suitcase with him.  He and his father had had another row, during which Enzo Lestrade had said ‘Don’t think you will ever marry Eva Gastambide.’  When Thomas persisted, Enzo said ‘Her uncle was Bastien Amestoy and I saw that he was killed so that I could marry your mother.  She was already pregnant with you, but despite you being that man’s offspring, I have brought you up as my son and you _will not_ repay my generosity by marrying his niece.’ 

“Thomas had told his father he would not stay in the house.  He was planning to hitchhike towards Paris and make a new life for himself.  He never wrote and even his mother only heard from him very rarely.  I said nothing of this at the time, only that he had had another argument with his father, which is what he had asked me to say. He had no wish to make things difficult for his mother.

“A few years later, I married one of the other village lads and by the time Thomas returned, I had had a family of my own and we never spoke of what had passed between us.”

She stopped speaking and waited.  Greg remained silent, reaching out unconsciously to John, who took his hand and gently squeezed it.

Mme Bidart clearly understood and sat patiently whilst Greg absorbed this new information.  After a few minutes he spoke.

“It was you who sent me the photographs?”

“Yes.  I had heard that the house had been left to you.  I wanted you to learn the truth, but I didn’t think you would necessarily believe it if I simply wrote to you.  So I sent the photographs thinking that if you were interested you would make enquiries, but if not, then nothing had been lost.”

“Thank you.  I’m glad to have found out what happened, although it’s still quite a shock.”

“Of course.  And thank you for coming to see me.”

Greg stood up and he and John shook hands with Mme Bidart before leaving. 

Once outside, he said “Can we go somewhere quiet?”

“Of course.  I noticed some seats beside the river as we were driving here.  They should be fine.”

When they had found a suitably secluded bench, Greg sat silently.  John watched as the tears rolled down his cheeks.  He wanted to comfort his friend, but could tell from the way he was hunched into himself that he wanted to be left alone with his thoughts.

After a while, the stifled sobs ceased and Greg leaned towards John, who put his arm round his shoulders. 

“Would it help to talk?”

“It’s just so sad.  One man’s lust causing him to spoil so many lives.  And yet she was so calm about it.”

“I think she’d practised it, probably many times before.  I didn’t understand all that she said, but I’d say she was relieved to be able to tell you.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right.  And I am glad to know the truth.  Once we get home I shall write and thank her properly.”

“I’m sure she’d appreciate that.”

John waited whilst Greg continued thinking, clearly trying to get things straight in his mind.

“But why didn’t he say something to me?”

“Who?”

“My father.”

“He wanted to protect his mother, I suppose.”

“I can understand that.  But she died when I was in my early twenties.  He had many years after that when he could have told me.  But not a bloody word.  That’s what gets me.”

“Do you think he told your mother anything?”

“I honestly don’t know.  I’d sort of assumed not, but I don’t know any more.”

Greg stood up.  “Right, I’ve come to a decision.”

“Okay.”

“We go back to the house, pack our things and drop the key back where we collected it from.  I can give Théo the address so that whoever collects his things will know where to go for the key.  We can drive back up the coast and find places to stay on the way so that we’re in Calais in time for the ferry home.  And on Monday morning I’ll phone the solicitor and tell him to put the place on the market.  Is that alright with you?”

“It sounds fine to me.”


End file.
